The same poem

A new beginning,

A comparable ending

It is the same poem

I keep writing.

The message differs

The titles adjust

One more figure of speech

For picking up a broken piece.

Elusive alterations

Editing the outcome

A plethora of versions 

For my book of poems.

Another round,

Back to square one

Are there any words left

This heart has not said.

Foreign land

If he really loved you...

If he really loved me, what? 

I suffer from Fernweh constantly,

Which horribly translates to wanderlust in English

Read the irony;

Still, I am traveling.

His blue eyes gallivant for a split second,

Sensible to where his mind escapes to,

I let him. 

I go fetch him water

He sneaks up from behind

Never turning around, 

He sees my soul full frontal.

If he really loved you...

If I really loved him, I know

What works

He is foreign land,

And I do not own a map.

Half love

Half a life
Half a love
Undivided submission;

Half-hearted
I am utterly devoted
To lesser moments.

Between the sheets
The mind drifts
In search of atonement;

Part-time wrong
Entirely yours
An inevitable outcome.

It is living half a life
Accepting half love
Full-time;

My light,
Take me out of the dark

The courage within to say goodbye.